


Split Your Knuckles

by willowsandwonders



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: AU typical violence, Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Fake AH Crew, M/M, Past Raycheal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 11:37:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12911127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowsandwonders/pseuds/willowsandwonders
Summary: For Michael, Gavin only exists in Geoff's old stories. Until suddenly he's there in a flurry of annoying questions and secrets that Michael fears will put the whole crew in danger.He starts out hating Gavin, then trying to understand what he's hiding. But in the end, he might just end up loving him.





	Split Your Knuckles

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this story on and off for upwards of nine months now, so I'm very excited to finally be sharing it with you all! Hope you enjoy!

Michael finds himself in the penthouse on the tail end of an adrenaline rush, knuckles bloody and really, _really_ fucking ready to get cleaned up and drown the rest of the day in some video games. He’s been running errands for the crew all day—boring shit like burning evidence out in the desert, playing bodyguard for an arms deal, stocking up on ammo. And just when things had been calming down some dumbass had tried to mug him on his walk back from grabbing a late lunch with Ryan. He didn’t get his relaxing walk, and the mugger wasn’t even a good fighter—went down in a few hits before even getting a swing of his own in.

So things have kind of teetered over the line of boring and into straight up shitty, and he’s running on autopilot until he can fill Geoff in on the jobs he’s finished, and then he can finally go fucking _home_ and—

There’s a stranger sitting on the couch. He’s got his feet up on the coffee table like he owns the damn place, tapping away at his phone without a care in the world. Michael’s already scrambling for his gun when the intruder notices him. The guy leaps to his feet, phone flying out of his hand. Then he lets out a terrified noise somewhere between a scream and a squawk when Michael lines the barrel of his pistol up with his heart.

“Who the _fuck_ are you?” Michael spits out, really _really_ not feeling like cleaning up this mess. This’ll mean _another_ drive out to the desert to take care of the body. Wouldn’t that just put a bow on this fucking day.

Fuckface McGee makes another shrill noise before sputtering out high pitched syllables that eventually find their way into becoming words. _“Christ!”_ he shouts, and Michael barely has time to register the accent before he’s barreling on, “Put that gun away, you bloody lunatic!” That actually manages to make Michael laugh, a dark chuckle that makes Fuckface visibly pale a few shades.

“Yeah, no, I don’t think it’s going anywhere. But _you_ are,” he announces, and marches forward to grab him by the front of the shirt. His plan is to pull him back out into the hallway so he at least doesn’t get any blood on the furniture. But when he grabs a fistful of his collar, other hand poking the gun against his Adam’s apple, Fuckface just—stiffens, locks all his joints, looking like the human equivalent of a useless board, and holy fucking shit, is that him trying to _defend_ himself?

Michael’s about to laugh at him again, but then there’s a flurry of noise from the hallway, fast footsteps that he swings around to aim his pistol at.

“What the hell are you two _doing?!”_

It’s Geoff. Michael lets the gun fall, grip weakening on Fuckface’s shirt. He takes the opportunity to squirm his way out of Michael’s grasp, and when he turns to track the movement Michael sees him looking at Geoff like a kid who’s been caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

“Geoff—” Fuckface starts to say, but Geoff holds up a hand to stop him and turns to Michael.

“It’s totally normal to want to shoot Gavin in the throat,” There’s an indignant squawk from Fuckface—no, Gavin, “But _please_ wait until we have some more time to catch up first.” Geoff must notice Michael’s furrowed brows, his generally confused-as-fuck expression, because he continues with, “You know, Gavin Free? From when I was running with that crew in Texas.” After a beat, he adds, “The one who set our safe house on fire so he could try to steal a fire truck?”

“I didn’t mean to burn it  _down!”_ Gavin cries. And yep, Michael knows who he is now—Gavin, better known as British Idiot in most of Geoff’s stories, coming up a lot when Geoff talks about his time with the Cockbites in Texas before he branched out to Los Santos.

“And what the fuck did you _think_ would happen when you poured gasoline all over the couch?!” Geoff’s shouting, but his face is split into a wide grin, “I don’t know what the hell you do back in England, but you could’ve just  _called the fucking fire department!”_

“But they wouldn’t have stayed if there wasn’t any fire!” Gavin’s smiling as hard as Geoff, fear forgotten as he rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet excitedly. Michael gets the feeling this is an old argument, one that’ll last longer than his own patience, so he stalks off to the guest room he’s informally claimed as his own to wash off.

Right before he steps into the shower, his phone buzzes from the bed. A quick glance says it’s Geoff, and he makes a point to sigh loudly before opening the messages.

 _Bossman B|_ _:_ _dinner’s at eight be there or ur out of the crew_

 _Bossman B|:_ _also play nice_

Michael sends him a thumb’s up, even though something still feels wrong about this whole thing. Geoff’s old buddy who fucked off back to England years ago, magically returned and in _their_ penthouse. It had to have been sudden—Michael’s been neck deep in crew business all day and hadn’t even heard a whisper about it. No one just stumbles into the heart of their territory with no warning, let alone someone who freezes up the second they’re at gunpoint. There _has_ to be more to this than meeting up with an old friend.

But if Geoff wants him to play nice? He’ll play fucking nice.

 

-

 

So maybe he’s not so great at playing nice. Geoff reminds him of this by kicking him in the shin under the table for what must be the hundredth time that night. All Michael did this time was parrot back part of Gavin’s story in an off-key British accent. And imitation’s the highest form of flattery, after all.

His mood has only soured as the dinner marches on, beyond exhausted and with a headache pulsing behind his eyelids. The food itself is as fucking amazing as everything else Geoff cooks—lasagna and garlic bread that probably would’ve been enough to salvage the day if it weren’t for the company. Since they all sat down, Gavin has been a constant stream of words and shrill bird noises. And, because Geoff clearly wants Michael dead, he’s made him sit across from the idiot who can’t help but stick his big nose into _everything_.

“So you’re Mogar, yeah?”

_No, I’m his evil twin._

“What do you do for the crew, then, or are you more of a jack of all trades kind of fellow?”

_I’m actually a deep cover FIB agent._

“You don’t look very scary for a criminal.”

_I had a gun in your face two hours ago._

“I bet you have someone who brings the lovely out of you. Like a bird or a bloke, maybe.”

That one makes Michael pause, an unpleasant twist in his stomach that he channels into sending a vicious glare towards Gavin. He’d been laughing at Michael’s blunt responses a minute ago, seemingly more delighted the more pissed off he got, but now Gavin shuts right up. Fucking _finally._ Geoff doesn’t even kick him in the shins for being rude, because unlike _some_ people he actually has a loose understanding of fucking boundaries.

Geoff launches into a conversation with Gavin, then, pulling Gavin’s sad puppy dog look away from Michael and he can almost forgive him for having this moron here in the first place. Michael tunes them out for a few minutes, halfway listening to Jack, Jeremy, and Ryan arguing about something that happened on their minecraft server—he hears the words ‘ritual sacrifice’ and decides he’s better off not knowing. Then he pulls out his phone to text Lindsay and scowls when he remembers she’s still undercover on a job. She’ll definitely murder him if he ruins the whole operation just because he was bored and cranky.

So with his social options exhausted, he tunes back into the conversation in front of him to hear Geoff ask, “So what’ve you been up to in England, Gavvers? Steal the crown jewels yet?”

The persistent smile on Gavin’s face fades a bit. He looks down at his plate, idly pushing around a piece of crust with his fork. Geoff doesn’t notice, distracted by an impromptu arm wrestling match between Jeremy and Ryan.

"Well, uh, Dan and I faffed around in the countryside for a bit," he pauses and Michael can _see_ the gears turning in his head, totally trying to build a good lie. Geoff nods for him to keep going, but with his eyes still on Jeremy and Ryan he clearly has no idea what the fuck is happening, here. "I was in India for a while," Gavin adds with a nervous glance towards Michael, words running into each other with how fast he bites them out, "So that was fun! Seeing the world and all that." _That's not a real answer and you know it_ , Michael wants to say. He manages to make eye contact with him for a second, but then Gavin's staring down at his plate like it's the most interesting thing in the goddamn world. Michel frowns. _What the fuck are you up to?_

"That does sound like fun, Gav," Geoff says before Michael can open his mouth to interrogate Gavin, turning back to face them. He bought Gavin's bullshit hook, line, and sinker. Something about that makes Michael feel a little sick. Seriously, can no one fucking see how suspicious this all is?

The conversation moves on from there, Jack leaning over to ask Geoff about some book that just came out, but now Michael doesn't even bother to be subtle about the looks he shoots Gavin whenever his laugh turns nervous. _Someone's_ got to be paying attention when this all blows up in their faces. Michael's going to figure out what the hell is going on here, mark his fucking words.

 

—

 

Michael doesn't see Gavin all weekend, which is a fucking blessing for his sanity until it isn't. He has weird dreams Sunday night—of the penthouse empty and covered in blood, of Gavin standing alone in the living room, flames roaring all around him. He tries to blame playing Resident Evil all night for the weird nightmare bullshit, but even he can't deny that he's been on edge all weekend, pacing around his apartment worrying about what Gavin might be up to in the penthouse. Everyone in the crew has a place there but Geoff's the only one who lives there full time—on a weekend it'd be easy for Gavin to plant bugs in the planning room, sabotage their equipment, rummage through their files, if he got his hands on a gun he could even—

So Michael finds himself throwing together an overnight bag at one in the fucking morning, trying to chase away the lingering memories of his dreams by blasting bad pop music and telling himself over and over that if he can just get to the penthouse he can keep everyone _safe_ —

It's not until he reaches the door of the penthouse almost half an hour later, breathing heavily with his heart trying to beat out of his chest, that he feels really fucking stupid. What is he even _doing?_ Here he is, a grown ass man, who can't even handle one fucking bad dream. What kind of—

And then he hears yelling. It’s Geoff, but that’s all he can tell through the heavy wooden door. He’s running inside in an instant, realizing too late that in his rush he forgot to bring any goddamn weapons and—

Gavin and Geoff are playing Peggle. Fucking _Peggle._ For a second he just stares at them, mouth open in shock, probably looking like a fish on land. There's no squawking from Gavin this time, instead Geoff's the one to leap to his feet, somehow managing to look serious and concerned wearing sweatpants and a faded old t-shirt.

"What happened?" Geoff's asking, reaching out a hand but pulling back when Michael suddenly takes a few steps backwards. The stress leeches out of his shoulders with the sudden adrenaline drop and all he feels is _embarrassed_ _._ He must look like a mess, hair mussed up from sleep and very obviously freaking the fuck out if he's running into the penthouse in the middle of the night. From the couch he sees Gavin staring—something that looks too much like pity etched into his features.

"Michael?" he continues, and Michael can't even bear to look either of them in the eyes. It's bad enough that Geoff's seeing this shit, let alone some _stranger_ that Michael only trusts as far as he can throw him. God, he’s such a _moron_ —

He turns to leave, shaking his head and all but running to the door, but he doesn't even reach the handle before Geoff's calling out after him. "Shit! Michael, wait—" He doesn't turn around. But he does listen, trying to ignore the twin stares boring holes into his back. "Spend the night here, okay? You don't have to tell me what happened, just, at least spend the night. It's late and you look pretty wiped. Okay?"

Michael already knows it's not really a question. He sighs, turning and heading for his room while pointedly not looking at either of them. He stops right before he hits the hallway, grasping for anything that will make this less awkward.

"You'll make breakfast, right?" he manages, and something in him settles when Geoff chuckles.

"Of course, buddy."

 

—

 

The next morning, Michael’s feeling better. Or at least he is until Geoff pulls him aside after luring him in with pancakes and starts to tell him that Gavin is staying for good, and then some other shit that gets lost to the sudden roar of expletives bouncing around his brain.

He manages to splutter out something along the lines of _why the_ fuck _is he staying here_ , somehow without choking on his food in the process, but his stomach twists when he realizes the look on Geoff's face is already telling him that there isn't any room for debate.

"He doesn't have anywhere else to go," Geoff says quietly, looking over his shoulder to make sure Gavin isn't listening in, because _that_ gives Michael _way_ more confidence in having a stranger in their penthouse. No way can this be fucking happening. Maybe last night he was overreacting but _this?_ Yeah, no, Geoff’s clearly lost his fucking mind.

"Then he can be a big boy and get a hotel. Shit, I'll even _pay_ for it—" Geoff scowls and the words die in his throat. He kind of awkwardly takes another bite of his pancake. If this is about to become a full-fledged fight he doesn't want to do it on an empty stomach.

"I don't understand why you are being such a little _bitch_ about him staying here!" And, yep, screaming match inbound. "You want to know why he's fucking here? He called me a mile from the airport from a payphone, lost and with all his shit stolen, and after all that like _hell_ was I just going to ditch him at some hotel! He told me last night he left because he wasn't happy in England, so you know what? I offered him a job."

"What the fuck—" Michael starts, but Geoff cuts him off.

"You might have forgotten, but I make the decisions around here," his voice starts to get that dangerous crew boss edge to it and Michael braces himself for the shit that's about to kick off. But he's not backing down from this one, because Geoff just doesn't seem to _get it._

"This is our home base," he explains as evenly as possible, _"Everything_ is here, our plans, our weapons—you can't just let someone who the rest of us don't even _know_ run around and, what? Assume we can trust him? That's—"

"I took a chance on you and—"

"That was _different,"_ Michael spits, more to stop those memories than to tell the truth. But it _has_ to be different, right? At least they could prove they were _useful,_ all Gavin's done is shout and lie and—

Geoff stands up and Michael fucking _hates_ how he looms over him, so he follows suit and leaps to his feet. He clenches his fists so his hands don't shake with the furious energy lighting up his veins. _God_ is this a far cry from last night, but they’re both fired up now and this can’t end pretty. "You and Ray were practically fucking _feral_ at the start, always hiding together in your room, could've been planning _god_ knew what, but we still _trusted_ you two because that's what crew _does!"_

"Gavin's not crew," Michael hisses, anger coiling tight in his chest, "Whether you let him stay or not, he doesn't _belong_ here. Whatever he was to you years ago—loyalties _change,_ people _change!"_

"Just because one person turned on you," Geoff says lowly, voice slipping into a dangerous calm, "does not make you an expert on who I should or shouldn't trust."

 _Fuck._ Michael's so angry he can't fucking get a single word out, can’t _breathe,_ and it feels like he's going to _implode_ because that was a low, low fucking blow.

He sees something move out of the corner of his eye.

"Is there a problem here, lads?" _Speak of the goddamn fucking devil._ Michael whirls around, probably looking demented with a fork gripped in one hand, openly seething and breathing heavily. He must look pretty bad because Gavin takes a step back, hands up in a placating gesture. “I’ll let you two sort this out, then.” He turns to go but Geoff reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

“Don’t worry, Michael and I just didn’t see eye to eye on something.” Michael can’t help his scoff. _Isn’t that a fucking understatement._ Geoff gamely ignores him. “I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it,” Geoff continues, “when he takes you to go buy some clothes to replace what got stolen.”

 _Holy fucking shit,_ Michael’s glare could melt glaciers.

 

—

 

In the car, Michael has to take a few seconds just to breathe and try to calm the fuck _down_. Next to him, shifting uncomfortably in the passenger seat, Gavin is quiet for what must be the first time in his life.

So of course, the blissful silence only lasts for a few blocks before Gavin bursts out with, "Can we go the mask shop? You know, the one by the pier? Bet it'd be fun, ease us into the boring shite." God, Michael _hates_ him.

"No," he snaps, "We're going to buy your dumbass some clothes because those are the orders of _big scary boss Geoff."_ Gavin opens his mouth to say some more dumb shit but Michael cuts him off. He cranks up the radio before fixing Gavin with a deadly glare and says over the pulsing music, "One more fucking word and I crash the car."

 

—

 

"Geoff didn't mean what all he said," Gavin says from behind a stack of jeans. He says it so quietly that it almost gets lost to the tinny nineties music coming from the store’s speakers. Michael can just see the top of his hair poking out from the top of the haphazard stack, sticking out in all sorts of directions.

"What the fuck was that?"

There's suspicious silence for a moment, and Michael's about to march over there when he hears a muffled, "I _said_ this wasn't as easy as I pictured in my head." Michael doesn't even bother to humor that blatant of a lie with an answer. He's more tense than angry, now, increasingly on edge with every thing out of place Gavin does. And how much did he hear of Michael and Geoff’s fight, if he felt the need to say that? Even if he knows, logically, that he and Geoff will sort things out once they've both cooled off, it doesn't sit right with him that Gavin overheard him viciously arguing to boot him to the street. That gives Gavin all the more motivation to try something, hurt the crew—

There's a panicked swear and then a thud—Michael bolts over to find that Gavin's knocked over a mannequin wearing a very unfortunate sundress. Its head has been knocked clean off by the impact, and Gavin looks mortified for all but a moment before he's laughing in wheezing giggles. He pulls out his phone to snap a photo with it, making a shocked face to the camera and muttering something about how Geoff is going to _love_ this, but Michael can't help but frown.

If he got mugged after leaving the airport like Geoff said, then how come he still has his phone? Michael's no Sherlock, not even much of a Watson, but even he can see that nothing to his story makes any fucking sense. So Gavin shows up to Los Santos because apparently he’s unhappy in England, but doesn’t even bother giving a head’s up with a phone call even though he knows Geoff's number. Then leaves the airport _on foot_ instead of at least calling a cab, gets robbed along the way but gets to keep his smartphone, and Michael's just supposed to, what? Trust him as blindly as Geoff does? No, Gavin's brought trouble in with him, he's sure of it.

Even in a rundown department store he's still a thorn in Michael's side. An employee rounds the corner and Gavin grabs him by the arm, cackling with glee before pulling him into the clearance racks and ducking down behind them as the poor sap passes by. They hear the employee fumble around setting the mannequin back up, swearing up a storm about idiot kids.

Gavin's looking at him with a helplessly amused look on his face, and if it were fucking anyone else he'd be smiling right along with them, but Michael _can't_ _trust_ _him_.

So instead he gets in Gavin's face, grabs a fistful of his shirt collar and hisses, "I know you're lying to us." Gavin gulps. "And if you try _anything_ that will put my crew in danger, it will be the last thing you ever fucking do."

He expects a flinch, maybe for him to get defensive. Instead, he gets Gavin saying, "Okay," with a nervous smile painted on his face. And then, "Once we get this done I'll stay out of your way."

Not quite the answer Michael was looking for, but they're starting to get weird looks from a family browsing a few racks over, so he lets it go for now.

Gavin scampers off to another corner of the store to look at shoes, eyes wide and nervous, leaving Michael staring at nothing and wondering why he almost feels _guilty_ about the whole thing.

 

—

 

True to his word, Gavin makes himself scarce once they get back to the penthouse, arms laden with shopping bags. He leaves Michael standing awkwardly in the living room, trying and failing to pretend that Geoff isn’t staring at him from the couch. The silence is uncomfortable—the rest of the crew must all be out and about. Gavin’d been on his phone the whole drive home—he bets a million dollars the little bastard set this up.

“Sit down.” Geoff doesn’t sound pissed anymore at least. Michael still can’t help bouncing his leg to burn off the nervous energy that fills him once he sits down, though, because he’s always been pretty shit at conversations like this. And he’s not sorry for what he said, no matter how much it pissed Geoff off. Maybe he regrets how it all came out, but still.

He keeps his eyes fixed down on the carpet, waiting for Geoff to do something. He’s studying an old stain from the time Ryan tried to juggle some wine bottles, mind half lodged in the memory when Geoff speaks.

“I get...protective of Gavin, sometimes.” It’s not what Michael expected him to lead with, but he nods anyway to show he’s listening. “It’ll make sense once you’ve been around him more, but he kind of just—worms his way into your life. He’s absolutely a piece of shit, but he’s very good at getting people to care about him—you’ll see.” Over Michael’s cold, dead body but, sure.

“ _But,”_ Geoff continues, “he also has commitment issues a mile wide. Even though he came all the way out here it was still hell trying to convince him to stay.”

“He couldn’t even commit to one shirt color,” Michael mutters, unhappily remembering how just an hour ago he had to hand the cashier five shades of the exact same goddamn shirt, and don’t even get him _started_ on the hoodies.

“Exactly!” Geoff says with a bit of a laugh, “Now you’re getting it—but anyway, I know he got here really suddenly, and—” he pauses, searching for the right words, “I get how weird it must look from an outside perspective—” _That’s one fucking way to put it._ “—and even after he told me about leaving England and all the rest of that mess, I could tell he was lying to me about something.”

 _“What?”_ If Geoff _knows,_ then why is he—

“I know he’s hiding something, and I don’t really care.” Before Michael can fire off another round of _what_ and _why the fuck,_ Geoff says, “He scares easy; if I push him too hard to open up he’ll get spooked. The last thing I want to do is accidentally chase him off and let him get thrown to the wolves. You know as well as I do what happens in this city when you can’t fend for yourself. And if he _is_ in trouble, it’ll be even worse for him out there. But here with the crew? He’ll be safe if there’s anyone after him. I’m trusting him to tell me what actually happened in his own time, but for now I need you to trust him too, alright?”

All Michael can do is shrug, mind still stuck on every way this could go horribly, horribly _wrong._

Geoff puts a hand on his shoulder. When Michael turns to look at him he can see how earnest he looks. “Earlier, I—I shouldn’t have brought up Ray. I took it way too far and I’m sorry for that. Especially after how freaked out you were last night, pushing you like that was way out of line. I couldn’t understand why you wouldn’t just give Gavin the benefit of the doubt, and I guess I still don’t completely get it, but I overreacted. And I _promise_ you, I wouldn’t be letting Gavin stay here if I wasn’t _certain_ he would never hurt any of you. I should’ve explained that without dredging up shit I knew you didn’t want to talk about.”

“I mean,” Michael mumbles, “I yelled at you after you made me breakfast, which was pretty fucking rude too.”

Geoff thumps him on the back in a way that’s probably supposed to be comforting, but feels a bit more like a punch. “So we can agree that we’re both assholes, but I was especially shitty?”

“If that’s your apology I guess I accept?” Geoff laughs and Michael smiles, too. It’s not an elegant resolution, but he knows that they’re good.

“It was.” Geoff stands up and cracks his back. Then Michael gets to laugh at him when he grimaces like an old man at the motion. “Good talk. I’m gonna go do actual work, while you kids, uh, do whatever it is you do on Monday’s.”

“Also work?”

“Nah, take the day if you want—I was gonna tell you to do something, but I kind of forgot. Maybe spend some time with Gavin? I know you’re not the biggest fan of him but he’ll win you over in no time, trust me.”

“Sure,” Michael says, even though he is _beyond_ certain that he wouldn’t intentionally seek out Gavin’s company if they were the last two people on Earth. Seriously.

 

—

 

“This might be the worst idea anyone has ever had. Or the best.” Michael’s referring, of course, to the unholy amount of fireworks in front of them. With 4th of July just passed, all the shady firework stands were practically _giving_ their less-than-legal stock away.

“Well I was reading this article about a man who shot a firework up his bum, so. Can’t be much worse than that!” Gavin seems pretty chipper for all the shit that went down earlier, wearing some of his new clothes and grinning ear to ear.

“Any fireworks come near my ass and I’m throwing yours off the mountain.” He doesn’t like that all Gavin does with that threat is throw his head back and laugh, sunset washing him out in oranges and pinks.

And, yeah, Michael’s on Mount Chilliad with Gavin, who just a few hours ago he swore up and down he would _never_ spend time with. But the penthouse had been quiet and boring with everyone else working and he hadn’t felt like going back to his apartment and doing lame adult shit like laundry, so sue him. Besides, Gavin’s been...decent, so far. Michael doesn’t even have a headache yet.

“How do you want to do this?” It’s only polite to let Gavin pick—this _is_ his first ‘let’s set off illegal fireworks on Mount Chilliad’ night, and those are special.

“Well we _have_ to set them off all at once, right?” Annoying piece of shit or not, Michael likes the way he thinks.

“Yeah—yeah, we can do that.” _Hell yes._ He’s expecting a big fucking fireball and the idea sends a shiver of excitement through him.

He gets to work setting up the fireworks, tying fuses together and occasionally calling over his shoulder for Gavin to pass him some of the empty beer bottles littering the dirt. It’s far from an elegant set up, but it’ll get the job of fiery explosions done _beautifully._

 

_-_

 

While they wait for it to get dark they lean back against the hood of the car and take in the sights. This is a popular haunt for the crew, but goddamn will Michael never get tired of the view. Damn near nothing compares to a Chilliad sunset. It feels like the whole world is stretching out in front of him, dressed in golden light. He’s no poet, but it’s really, _really_ fucking pretty.

It doesn’t even cross his mind to look over for Gavin’s reaction until the sunset is starting to fade into blues and purples. The other man’s eyes are wide, mouth open in wonder. Somehow Michael had expected him not to care—to be fucking around on his phone or running his mouth. But the look on his face is nothing short of awe, and Michael smiles.

“Sure is something, isn’t it?”

“ _Yeah,”_ Gavin breathes, eyes still fixed on the sky. They’re silent for a few minutes, watching the glowing light of the clouds sink into dusk. It’s not until the first stars start to appear that Gavin speaks again. “Thank you, Michael.”

For a second he’s tempted to comment on the stupid way Gavin’s accent wraps around his name, completely butchering it in a way that _has_ to be on purpose, but he lets it go—the air feels too heavy to fill it with something like that.

There’ll be time to make fun of him later. Michael opens his mouth to say that it’s no problem, really, but Gavin continues before he can get the words out. “Seriously, I—I don’t think I’ve ever seen something quite like that.” He hops off the hood and wanders over towards one of the steeper drop offs, looking down at the sights below.

Michael gets the sudden urge to call out to him and tell him to step back before he falls down the goddamn mountain and gets himself killed—but he shakes it off. Fucking sunset bonding moment or not, Gavin can take care of himself. Maybe.

Either way, he’s not Michael’s problem. Instead he moves to double check the fuses on the fireworks again, making sure he’ll have time to light them all without blowing himself sky high. Gavin wanders back over too once the final dregs of the sunset have given way to night. Michael hears him mumble something along the lines of _“And I thought the sunsets on the beach were nice,”_ but the words don’t really stick in his brain, too focused on what’s about to be a damn good pyrotechnics display.

He flicks his lighter on to see better, which is definitely fucking _stupid,_ but Gavin doesn’t comment on it and Michael’s careful not to let it too close to the fuses. Crouched next to him, Gavin’s grinning at their impressive arsenal. Excitement is a palpable thing running through Michael’s veins.

“You ready?” In the dim firelight, he watches Gavin nod so quickly he half expects him to get whiplash. “Alright then,” he announces, already grinning ear to ear.

He takes a deep breath, in and out. Then he lights the fuses.

 

—

 

“So I heard you and Gavin had fun last night,” Geoff says, a little too smug for his liking.

“What?” Michael asks around a mouthful of cereal. He and Gavin hadn’t gotten back to the penthouse until the early hours of the morning—after the fireworks they’d just driven around the city, shooting the shit. He’d decided to stay over in the penthouse again once the exhaustion hit and he barely had enough energy to stumble into his guest room and faceplant on the bed.

“Some hikers took a video. It did pretty good on Reddit, I think.”

“Good for them, I guess,” he mumbles, ignoring the shit-eating grin Geoff’s giving him.

“I told you, dude. He’ll worm his way into that cold, shriveled little heart of yours.”

Michael rolls his eyes. “Don’t make it sound like I’m the fucking _Grinch,_ Geoff.”

Gavin wanders in, then, yawning and with truly impressive bedhead. Geoff mercilessly abandons Michael when Gavin starts trying to sleepily steal his orange juice. Michael flips Geoff off as he leaves and all he gets in response is a laugh.

“Let’s get food, Michael.” Gavin sinks heavily into one of chairs, pillowing his head on his arms.

“I’m literally eating right now, dumbass.” Gavin makes a pitiful noise into his arms. “And you’re in a fucking _kitchen,_ dude,” he points out. “You’ve gotta put two and two together here.”

“That makes four,” Gavin mumbles, dragging himself out of his chair and towards the pantry.

“Hope you didn’t strain yourself figuring that one out,” Michael calls out after him. Gavin makes another indignant noise.

“We should get Chinese,” Gavin says, muffled by him sticking his head in the pantry. “There’s a good place not too far from here—” he breaks off with a little cheer and turns away from the pantry brandishing a bag of mini doughnuts. “You know the one—” he pauses to pop one in his mouth, “—in between the bowling alley and where that fro-yo place used to be.” He says it casually but something about it doesn’t sound quite right in Michael’s head.

 _Wait a minute._ “Have you visited Los Santos before? Geoff definitely hasn’t mentioned it if you have.” Gavin shakes his head, distracted by pouring a glass of milk.

“Nah. Geoff came to visit me in England once, though.”

“Then how come you know all that shit? You haven’t even been here a week.” Gavin has his back to him, but Michael sees him stiffen. It’s like when Michael tried grabbed him on that first day—every limb tensed up and shoulders tight with tension.

“Geoff told me about it one time.” There’s a frozen pause. Then Gavin seems to shake himself out of whatever state he’d gotten into, setting his food down on the table and only hesitating for a second before sitting down. “It just sounded good, I don’t know.” Michael’s suddenly reminded of what Geoff told him yesterday— _god, was it only yesterday?—_ Gavin scares easy. And he’s proven himself to be kind of alright so far, so Michael backs off for now.

He knocks knees with Gavin under the table, making a conscious effort to keep his tone light when he says, “If Geoff’s telling you about all these restaurants, maybe you should go with him instead.”

“No, Michael!” Gavin cries, the last of the tension dropping from his shoulders, “I was hanging around him all bloody weekend! Might go crazy if he tells me that story about robbing a bank dressed like Abraham Lincoln again.” Michael laughs. That one’s a classic.

“We’ll go later,” Michael tells him and Gavin grins. “I’ve got shit to do—gotta go back to my apartment and also, you know, I do have a job that I should do at some point.”

“Dinner, then?”

“Hell yeah, Gavin.”

 

—

 

They get Chinese. It feels a bit like a whirlwind—barely a day ago he’d hated Gavin through and through. He still doesn’t _trust_ him per say, but _keep your enemies closer_ and all that shit, right? Besides, Gavin’s not bad company. He makes Michael laugh more than he’d like to admit. God, he can already hear Geoff’s _I told you so_ ringing through his head.

As the weeks march on he finds himself spending more and more time with Gavin. But Michael still worries, sometimes, and finds himself staying over at the penthouse at least a few nights a week. His guest room has started accumulating little bits of home—some clothes, the shampoo he likes, he even starts carting some of his games back and forth.

It's kind of nice being in the penthouse more. It reminds him of those early days with Ray, mornings up on the roof watching the sun rise, falling asleep on the couches in the living room after watching shitty indie films Geoff found. And now Gavin's in the mix—Michael runs into him and Ryan shouting gibberish about triangles and coins in the kitchen, one time perched on Jack's shoulders while the other man calmly went about his business, or goading Jeremy into doing weird gymnastic stunts. Geoff really wasn't kidding when he said Gavin could draw people to him fast.

He wants to talk to Lindsay about the whole Gavin situation, to get one last confirmation that he can let himself start to trust him. But it's been mostly radio silence—her only contact comes once a week when she sends Geoff updates on her mission. It's just quick things to say she's still alive, still gaining the trust of the target. Michael doesn't really go near any of their more complicated jobs—he's more in the business of pointing a gun where he's told to and doing the odd heist now and then—which he's fine with until Lindsay's been gone for a month and he doesn't even get to know where the fuck she is. If Michael didn't know it would just put her in danger he'd be asking her if she dyed her hair for this one, or if the place she's staying has a nice view, anything to just _talk_ again.

He mentions Lindsay offhand to Gavin a few times, steering away from any assassinations she's done that the crew wouldn't want getting out and focusing on how she and Gavin seem to share a love of cats and driving him crazy. Gavin must pick up on how much Michael misses her, though, because he somehow manages to find him every time he's off sulking about it somewhere, quick to pull him out of his own head. Gavin gets his hands on his phone number at some point and starts sending him funny cat videos to show Lindsay later, and then just whatever slew of things crosses his mind. Michael must get a hundred texts about how _boring_ the penthouse is, which he learns is Gavin-speak for asking to go out. It’s a good distraction, at any rate.

Somewhere along the line things fall into a new pattern. They’re in between big crew jobs, so stress is pretty low. Michael still has boring grunt work to do like going to burn evidence out in the desert, but sometimes Gavin tags along and joins in when he sings to the radio in the car. Or he'll get back to the penthouse after a job to find Geoff and Gavin playing video games and they'll pass him a controller. He and Gavin start calling each other _boi,_ kind of on accident, and Michael ignores how the rest of the crew rolls their eyes at them the first time they hear it.

Things are good, even kind of close to peaceful. It's definitely something Michael could get used to.

 

—

 

Then a job goes wrong.

It starts with this hotshot little crew that tries to buy off some of their arms dealers, then when that fails starts ambushing some of their shipments. They’re small in numbers but just annoying enough to be a threat, so they decide it’s time to take them out before they pick up steam and get even more dangerous.

They track down their headquarters to this shitty little office building on the outskirts of the city. It’s in a dried up industrial sector and all the lots surrounding it are vacant, so there’s not much in the way of civilians or quick police response to worry about. All they have to do is go in, shoot some motherfuckers, and go home. Nothing new there.

Jeremy, Michael, and Ryan get sent to sort all of that shit out. Gavin tags along—he claims it’s for moral support but Michael knows he’s trying to get out of doing the dishes. They give him body armor and make him wait in the car but Michael can see him waving from the front seat as they make their way towards the front door. Probably too cheery for what’s about to be a bloodbath, but Michael appreciates the enthusiasm.

It’s a daylight mission—this far from the city and with so small a crew they’re not too worried about stealth. Already he can hear shouting voices inside and he has to shove down the urge to run back to the car and tell Gavin to keep his fucking head down. Whether or not they have the advantage, or body armor, one stray bullet to the head is all it takes.

But then Ryan’s kicking at the door and Jeremy has his gun raised, so he turns his back on the street and gets to work.

 

-

 

It’s over quickly. For all the rival crew’s earlier bravado, none of them put up much of a fight. Half of the baker’s dozen of idiots didn’t even have their weapons out. Rookie mistake. And they got out of it pretty clean, Michael notices some blood running down Ryan’s arm from a long cut, but nothing too deep and certainly far from the worst that could’ve happened. Michael checks on Gavin, too, peering out the windows to make sure their car doesn’t have any bullet holes in it, no blood splashing the inside. Gavin waves at him again and gives him a thumb’s up, which is all the proof of life Michael needs.

After it’s all said and done, they start poking around the safehouse. The plan is to burn the whole fucking thing to the ground, which Michael is _very_ excited for, but first they need to see what information they can glean from this place. If they find evidence of another crew sponsoring them, shit is going to get way more complicated.

But no matter how important the work, it’s far from enjoyable. He’s alone up on the second story, studying some of their weapons for any red flags. But he doesn’t spot any symbols etched into the barrels of the guns, or any odd type of knife that could’ve served as a calling card for some bigger crew. No envelopes full of money, and with all the sleeping bags and personal items he sees strewn about it’s unlikely this was a temporary hideout. A part of him that he tries to bury aches when he finds photos under one of their pillows, or a wedding ring on a woman’s finger.

There’s something unsettling about being by himself surrounded by blood and corpses. Something that makes his palms sweat, ears hyper aware of every sound—

Tires on gravel.

He’s at the window in a second, trying to cover himself with the thin curtains like a kid playing hide and seek. Mind flooded with adrenaline, his first thought is to curse whatever dumbass architect picked _this_ to be the only goddamn vantage point, a floor to ceiling pane of glass that doesn’t offer any _fucking_ cover.

 _Let this be nothing_. He’s got a white-knuckled grip on his gun, mind racing as he cranes his neck to look down the street. There’s a couple bullet holes in the glass, spiderwebbed cracks making everything look like it’s through a funhouse mirror.

But even that isn’t enough to obscure the black van that slinks down the street, pulling up right next to their car. He can make out Gavin whirling around to get a better look at them before he’s throwing open the car door, breaking out into a run towards the building and _oh shit, Gavin’s fucking down there and he doesn’t have a gun, he doesn’t know how to fight—_

 _“Gavin!”_ he yells before he can stop himself. It’s a fucking _stupid_ reaction, because now he’s given away his position and Gavin’s freezing in the middle of the sidewalk like a deer in the headlights. And when the pack of mercenaries pour out of the van in an angry swarm and put a gun to his head Michael doesn’t know what to do, what can he _do_ —

He can see Gavin babbling something, too far away for him to make out the words, but then one of the mercenaries grabs him roughly by the arm and starts pulling him away. Gavin goes stiff as a board in the way Michael’s made fun of him for a dozen times over now, but it’s not funny anymore when his eyes are wide and scared and the whole situation is so sudden and makes no fucking _sense._

Michael sees red. He shoots at the man grabbing Gavin and gets him through the shoulder. He shouts and stumbles back, letting go of Gavin. Downstairs he hears Jeremy and Ryan shout in alarm, followed by a staccato of shots from below at the newcomers, distracting them long enough for Michael to press himself back against the wall before he gets shot to pieces. Gavin takes the opportunity, too, and he sees him make a break for it, then hears the front door open and slam shut again.

That’s around where his memory of things starts to get choppy. Later he’ll remember brief snatches of it all—dropping to the floor and laying down cover fire, the click of an empty gun, shouts, footsteps on the stairs, sunlight glinting off a knife, knuckles impacting against flesh, then _falling,_ and pain pain pain.

Getting thrown out of a window is _not_ fucking fun.

In the minutes afterwards he lies on the sidewalk, dazed, staring up at the spinning sky above him. With a shoulder knocked out of place and blood all over his clothes and sluggishly pooling underneath his head, Ryan tells him later that he looked “rather alarming.” Apparently all he’d done in the face of them asking if he was alright was puke. Heroic.

But he cares little about that in the moment, lapsing in and out of consciousness as familiar faces swim into view and bundle him into the car. An insistent voice reminds him to keep his eyes open, but he can barely process the words before he’s falling under again.

 

—

 

The next time he fully stirs back into consciousness he’s in the penthouse. A sudden wash of pain threatens to tug him back under and he fights to focus on the voices floating around him, to figure out whoever’s poking at his cheek. He tries to tell them to fuck off, but all that comes out is a halfhearted grunt.

“C’mon, c’mon—eyes open, Michael.” Ignoring them doesn’t work—there’s another series of pokes that keep him from slipping back under, where things are quiet and nothing _hurts._

When he cracks open his eyelids he’s bombarded by painful swirls of color and light, but then the voice makes a little cheer and tells him to keep it up, so he tries to push past it. Everything’s out of focus, and for a second he registers that his glasses are missing, but that detail gets lost in the rush of confused splinters of memories, a sudden panic that he doesn’t remember the cause of.

He’s missing something here, and as the penthouse swims into view before him he finds himself looking for faces, but he isn’t sure _whose_ and the throbbing in his head keeps him from latching onto one single thought—

Strong hands start pushing his shoulder around and he moans weakly, soft pulsing pain growing stronger until there’s bursts of light behind his eyes. Something slides back into place with an explosion of pain and he shouts but then it settles, fading back into a dull ache.

Things start getting fuzzier from there, bright spots of pain flaring up every now and then. His eyes flutter shut at some point and he can’t summon the energy to open them again.

He registers with passing awareness a warm hand laced through his, squeezing tighter in time with the pained noises Michael hadn’t even realized he was making. It feels nice, gives him something to feel outside of his own aches. He tries to focus on it in the sea of pain and noises bombarding his senses. It feels like he’s floating, spinning out of control, but the point of contact helps ground him.

“You did great, boi,” filters in through the haze. He forces his eyes open a sliver and sees a colorful blur in the vague shape of Gavin standing above him. “It’s over now, you can sleep.” Everything is still confusing, but that sounds nice. _Really_ nice. His lips twitch into a smile and then his eyes roll back in his head, gone to the world.

 

—

 

He slips in and out of sleep for a while, confused and sore in his brief snatches of lucidity before passing out again. Sometimes there’s hands gently shaking him, waking him up and shining lights in his face before letting him drop off again. He half-remembers people talking at him while he mumbled back hopefully coherent answers, but most of it gets lost to the blur of pain and sleep he’s found himself lost in.

When he’s finally back in the land of the living, he registers two things. First, _ow._ Did he get hit by a train or something? Everything feels stiff and sore. He tries to sit up before abandoning _that_ fucking horrible idea. His chest burns at the motion and his balance is off from the way his head is spinning like a tilt-a-whirl and with one of his arms in a sling. But it’s the second thing that makes him jump, do a double take—

Lindsay’s here.

“I leave you alone for a few weeks and you start jumping out of windows.” She’s in a chair by the bed, dark circles under her eyes but otherwise looking no worse for wear. Her hair’s been bleached blonde but even in the dim light of the room and without his glasses he can see where her roots are starting to grow in. Michael has to blink a couple times to make sure she’s actually there and this isn’t some fever dream, but _god_ is she a sight for sore eyes.

“I’m pretty sure someone threw me,” he mumbles in a daze, stopping to clear his throat when his voice comes out all croaky. Lindsay passes him a glass of water that he gratefully accepts. Memories are starting to filter back in, disorganized and choppy. “And I’m not the one who set their apartment on fire the second night I lived there.”

“Listen, the cooking instructions on the box were _really_ unclear.”

“It was _pasta!”_ Michael tries to sound serious but he can’t wipe the grin off his face. He’s suddenly reminded of Geoff and Gavin’s shouting about burning down safehouses. He wonders if Lindsay’s heard Gavin’s version of that story yet.

He shifts unconsciously and then immediately regrets it, wincing when his whole body tells him to fuck off at the motion. Yeah, okay, painful fucking reminder of the matter at hand.

“Everyone okay?” His memories of what happened are hazy at best but he remembers seeing Gavin getting dragged away and gunfire and _pain,_ and the fact that he has no idea if they made it out alright sends ice flooding through his veins—

Lindsay nods. “They’re good.” Michael lets out a relieved sigh. “All the people who attacked you are dead. And on our side no one has more than some dings and scratches. Jeremy has a black eye that’s gotten as purple as his hair, but he thinks it’s kind of cool.”

“Of course he would,” Michael mumbles. Lindsay laughs and it’s music to his ears.

“You’re the one who got all the cool souvenirs,” she adds, “On top of, well, everything, you’ve got a black eye too, but to tell you the truth it’s not as cool as Jeremy’s. Dude punched the glasses right off of you.” She’s got something silver in her hand, and he grimaces when he realizes it’s his spare pair of glasses.

“Everytime I think I’m done with wireframes shit like this happens!”

“Then wear contacts on jobs, stupid.”

“Fuck you,” Michael says through a jaw-popping yawn he fails to suppress. The last thing he wants to do is go back to sleep so soon after waking up, especially when Lindsay’s _back,_ but exhaustion’s creeping in steadily and it’s hard to keep his eyes open.

“Sleep,” Lindsay says, voice soft. “You need it. We’ll update you on everything that happened later, but rest for now.” Michael nods, settling further into the pillow. The words stir a faint memory of a hand in his, keeping him anchored to reality. And then he’s fast asleep, the memory dissolving into dust.

 

—

 

It’s far from the first time Michael’s gotten hurt, but he somehow always manages to forget just how _annoying_ the recovery process is. Steffie’s given him the damage report: concussion, dislocated shoulder, a handful of stitched up slices from the knife fight he doesn’t even fucking remember getting _into_ , plus deep bruises on what feels like his entire fucking body. It’s not _too_ bad, especially once he gets to take the sling off and people stop giving him looks when he ignores orders of bedrest. But even after a few days he’s still sore as shit and tiring easily—even worse he’s being kept off jobs and from doing much of anything until he recovers fully.

Geoff’s gotten this dumbshit idea stuck in his head that as soon as Michael leaves the penthouse he’s gonna get hit by an asteroid, or whatever. His actual words were that he’d _get into trouble,_ like they didn’t literally break the law for money. But with Gavin almost getting grabbed and the fact that those people attacked them at all, Geoff’s in full paranoid bastard mode.

So they’re both marooned in the penthouse—Gavin until they figure out what the fuck the apparent allies of that crew wanted from him, and Michael until Steffie clears him to get back to working. Which would be fine if he wasn’t _losing his fucking mind._ The Fakes own the whole building, but even that doesn’t seem to give him enough breathing room. Half the floors are empty, anyway, and he can only pace for so long before shit starts aching again and he has to sit down.

Gavin seems to be taking it exceptionally poorly. It’s like his volume levels have been doubled and caffeine injected into his veins—he can’t seem to go two seconds without latching onto someone and making himself a nuisance, firing off hypotheticals and prodding into people’s business before flitting off minutes later to the next poor sap who walks in the door.

Except for Michael. Gavin’s pulled a one-eighty again, hardly glancing his way even when he seems to make time for every other goddamn person in the crew. Before, Gavin had seemed to take everything in stride—delighted the more Michael ribbed at him, grinning insults running off him like water on a duck’s back.

But now he gets all huffy when Michael tries to have even one fucking conversation with him, fixing every joke from Michael with a cold, indifferent stare. And honestly? It pisses him off.

He’d thought that he and Gavin had had a good thing going. The trust wasn’t all there like Michael had with the rest of the crew, but they’d still worked. And that trust had been building, Gavin slowly moving past his walls, really getting to know him—having that suddenly thrown away stings in a way that he tries not to think about for too long.

 

—

 

It’s so fucking good that Lindsay’s back. Gavin rubs her the wrong way right off the bat—understandable since she’s never seen him as anything other than some random British asshole acting like a hummingbird hopped up on caffeine. Michael tries to halfheartedly explain to Lindsay that he’s not _completely_ terrible, but it’s kind of difficult when Gavin’s dodging around Michael like he has the plague.

The two of them end up tucking away from the crew a bit—let the rest of them deal with Hurricane Gavin. God knows it takes most of those unlucky sons of bitches just to keep him in one place. So Michael and Lindsay end up hiding out in weird places around the building—an empty office on the third floor with a dart board, or a pair of old couches stuffed in the back of a storage room. Anywhere Michael can’t hear Gavin’s ridiculous bird noises and raucous laughter through the walls, as pathetic as that sounds.

Lindsay brings back take out most nights to help make up for the fact that he’s stuck here for the foreseeable future. He’d take it up with Geoff if that didn’t mean dealing with Gavin by proxy. And Geoff’s just as stubborn as the rest of them—it’s a fight Michael will almost certainly lose.

But hanging out with his best friend, stuffing his face with chicken tacos and watching crappy old movies on Lindsay’s phone? It’s good, fucking _awesome,_ and it does a lot to balance out all the other shit that’s been going on.

They’re on the couches tonight. It normally comes down to a coin flip—Lindsay likes the dart board room better, but the shoulder of Michael’s dominant arm is still fucked up, all stiff and sore and he can’t throw for shit with his left.

There’s a muffled thud from above them, followed by some angry squawking sounds. Lindsay pauses the movie and grabs a long-forgotten broom from the floor. He has to swat at her arm to stop her from hitting the ceiling with the handle like a crotchety old woman and giving away their spot. If Gavin starts haunting he and Lindsay’s hangout spots Michael will actually quit the crew. Just leave and move to some private island. He’s rich enough to do that, maybe.

“He wasn’t always like this, was he?” Lindsay’s question shakes him out of his fantasy of being alone on a beach, sipping out of a coconut and far away from people’s bullshit. Even just the mention of Gavin is enough to make him scowl.

“Gavin’s default setting is being an annoying bitch.”

“If that was true you’d be complaining about him, not pretending that he doesn’t exist.” God, he hates when she’s right about stuff. And he hates _himself_ when he can’t force out an answer, because _I thought we were friends_ sounds too fucking sad and _It doesn’t matter_ is a lie Lindsay won’t fall for.

“I just thought it’d be good to know,” Lindsay continues before he can find the right words. She has kind of an odd look on her face and he’s not sure what he’s supposed to be bracing himself for, but then she’s adding, “since we’ll be working together pretty soon.”

Michael blinks. Then again. First, the possibility runs through his head of _Gavin_ getting put on the lengthy undercover work Lindsay does. He’d get himself fucking murdered in the first week, has Geoff gone completely _crazy—_

“I asked Geoff to put me on more heist work.” _Oh._ “That one heist I planned went pretty well, and it’s much more enjoyable than, you know, having to become best friends with people before murdering them.” There’s pain in those words, but before he can say anything she’s shaking herself, putting a smile back on her face. He knows better than to push.

“If your first grand plan involves stealing cats, I don’t think I want to be involved.”

She pouts. “But I’d _adopt_ them, not steal them!”

“Yeah, and where will you be when the twenty cats you get all realize they outnumber you and eat your fucking face off?”

“Twenty bucks says I can train my face-eating cats to attack people on command. Best assassins in Los Santos. No one _ever_ suspects the cats.” She says it with a grave seriousness, but he can see a smile twitching at the corners of her lips.

“Last time I made a bet with you we ended up blowing up both of our cars!”

She laughs at the memory. Michael sinks back into the couch, grin wide and Gavin momentarily forgotten. It’s the most at peace he’s felt in a while.

 

—

 

It’s not until a few days later that he sees Gavin again. They’ve fallen into a pattern of avoiding each other, and once Steffie clears him for work it’ll get even easier. In a couple of days he should get his stitches out and after that they’ll have to fucking tie him down to stop him from getting out into the city again, and even that doesn’t feel soon enough. He’s _excited_ to get back into the swing of things, to actually feel like he has some kind of _use_ again. Catching up with Lindsay has been awesome, but too much time sitting stagnant has been wearing down on him.

He’s looking out over the city, half-absorbed in the twinkling lights of the high rises as he mechanically runs through stretching out his shoulder. Still a little stiff, but definitely something he can work with. And thank god for that, because there’s an adrenaline itch underneath his skin and he’s never going to be able to fall asleep if it doesn’t settle soon.

Already he’s running through some possibilities in his head. He can afford a little bit of recklessness—this late at night Geoff probably won’t wake up to him leaving or coming back. As long as he makes it back early enough and doesn’t make too much of a mess out in the city he could get out there and _do_ something, he could—

“Michael?” He jumps, hissing when the motion pulls the wrong way at his bad shoulder. Reflected in the window is Gavin’s face, pale like a ghost in the dim light. His voice is soft and for the first time in what feels like forever Gavin doesn’t appear to be bursting at the seams with energy.

But when he turns around Gavin seems to shrink, shoulders hunching as he moves to fiddle with the end of one sleeve. The longer Michael looks at him, stare flat and cold like the way Gavin’s been treating _him,_ the more anxious Gavin seems to become. So maybe his energy’s just turned nervous, but sympathy’s far from Michael’s mind. He wants some sort of _answer,_ wants to feel like he has any control over this fucking shitstorm. _I want to_ fix _this,_ a traitorous part of him insists.

“It’s like three in the morning.” The words are falling out of his mouth before Michael can stop them, “Why’re you still up?” He very resolutely doesn’t look at Gavin as he realizes the words came out all wrong—too casual, too _concerned._ He’s supposed to be pissed off here, and he _is,_ but underneath all the restlessness he’s fucking _exhausted._ It’s easier to pretend that he doesn’t give two shits about Gavin when he’s out of sight. Now he just—he doesn’t know what to _do._

Gavin doesn’t seem to either. He’s shifting his weight back and forth, biting his lip. Michael turns back to watching his reflection—the small degree of separation helps. And a stubborn part of him doesn’t want Gavin to get a good look at his face, to imagine that it’s hard and angry.

“I think Geoff’s getting a bit of a cold—his snoring’s been keeping me up,” Gavin’s voice is weak, makes his lie come out even more artificially. _God,_ how fucked up is it that he’s so familiar with what Gavin sounds like when he lies?

Michael opens his mouth to call him out on it, but he can’t quite bring himself to. He imagines driving alone on the empty streets, of Gavin sitting sleepless in the penthouse, shadows all around him. _Fuck it._

“So I think I’m going to go rob a gas station.”

“What the _hell?!_ ” Gavin screeches, and Michael whirls around, hurrying to shush him.

“You want to wake Geoff up?!” he hisses. Then, a little more calmly, he adds, “And this late it’s not like there’ll be people around—it’ll be _fine._ ” Gavin looks even worse now that he can get a better look at him, bags under his eyes and still wearing his daytime clothes, all wrinkled to shit now. Michael tries and fails to curb the part of him that demands he get that anxious and exhausted look off of Gavin’s face. Maybe they both need this.

“But Geoff—”

“—Isn’t my mom and can’t tell me what to do. I’ll only be gone for a couple hours, he won’t even know.” Michael swallows. The words he wants to say next feel stuck in his throat, but he manages to force them out in a heap, all the syllables crashing into each other. “Youcancomewithifyouwant—”

“What?”

“I _said_ to get your dumbass in the car if you want to go fuck some shit up. Or stay here and listen to Geoff snore all night, I don’t care.” The last part’s a lie, and he’s pretty sure Gavin knows it. He _does_ care, more than he’d like to admit, and when Gavin’s nervous expression breaks into a small smile, it feels like a weight’s been lifted.

 

—

 

When they hit the garage, after sneaking around in the dark getting ready, whispering furiously and making bad spy movie jokes with only a few awkward silences between them, Michael finds himself filled with a nervous _excitement._ To finally get a break from the penthouse, to go make some chaos, to be with Gavin again, and at least pretending that things are normal. Having a goal in common helps, he thinks, even if that goal involves several felonies and possibly incurring the fiery wrath of one Geoff Ramsey. He’s not sure which is more dangerous.

Once they’re on the road he takes a second to really look at Gavin. In the passing pools of light from the streetlamps he seems more relaxed than he’d been in the penthouse, a little bit more alive. It makes him smile despite himself. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows that this is probably a terrible idea, that he should be talking things out and not fucking things up in the city to blow off steam. But Gavin’s here and not looking at Michael like he’s a walking piece of dog shit, so he can’t be handling things _too_ badly, right?

The silence is still kind of awkward, though. His mind is racing for things to break it with when Gavin says, so quietly Michael can barely hear him, “Sorry, for...all that. I was being a right prick.”

Kind of stunned, all Michael can manage is repeating back, “A righ’ pri’” in the most obnoxious Gavin impression he can muster.

“Well I was!” Gavin splutters.

“No argument there,” Michael says distractedly, studying a gas station as they drive by. It brings up a memory, unbidden, of the fireball from another station—accidentally blasted sky high during a heist gone way fucking wrong. The feeling of the world coming down around him isn’t something he likes to dwell on. Fire swallowing up everything, screams echoing around him, and _Ray—_

He shakes himself out of the memory. He shouldn’t stay up this late, it makes his brain do dumb shit. Gavin looks like he wants to say something else, but before he can, his phone starts buzzing. Michael’s first thought is, _fuck, Geoff knows we’re gone._ But Gavin looks more _annoyed_ than anything, and he hesitates for a second before picking up.

“I told you to stop calling me,” Gavin snaps. Michael blinks in surprise—Gavin had been cold around him the past few days, sure, but even then he hadn’t been so outwardly harsh. He’s half impressed that Gavin can manage _proper vinegar,_ as he’d call it, the other half torn between being confused or concerned.

There’s a beat of silence on Gavin’s end—Michael can faintly hear a voice coming through the phone, volume rising until he’s pretty sure they’re yelling, but he can’t make out the words. Michael tries to shoot Gavin a look, but the other man’s gaze is fixed squarely at the floorboards.

“And how was I supposed to know that? You’re the one who should’ve been paying attention to what they were doing.” Another beat. “I _didn't_. God, why are you so paranoid all the time?" They pull up to a red light and Michael turns to look at Gavin. He seems more annoyed than Michael's ever seen him, but worrying his lip and messing with the end of his sleeve again, too.

"You good?" Michael murmurs, gesturing towards the phone pressed up against Gavin's ear. He'd tried to say it quietly, but the burst of volume from the speakers probably means he failed. Gavin doesn't seem too mad about it though, just screws his eyes shut and clenches the phone tight until the tirade dies down.

"I can handle myself just fine and I know what I'm doing. Unlike you, bloody nearly getting him _killed_ —" More angry bursts of volume. Michael decides he's _definitely_ concerned about whatever the fuck is going on here. "I'm done with this," Gavin hisses, "Just leave us the fuck alone."

The light flicks back to green, but Michael keeps his foot on the brake. The streets are empty, anyway, and the car is filled with a heavy silence after Gavin ends the call. He's slumped back in his seat, turned away from Michael and staring at the collection of graffiti on the building next to them.

"What was...that about?" Michael ventures. Gavin still doesn't look at him, but he shrugs.

"Old friend."

"Didn't sound very friendly."

Gavin huffs out a hollow laugh. "I didn't exactly say I left England for the fun of it, did I?"

"So this person..." Michael trails off, too confused by what he just heard to fill in any blanks. To know how to _help._

"Let's not, Michael," Gavin says, finally turning back towards him and shooting him a look that's just shy of puppy dog eyes. Any anger seems to slip away from his features as he adds, "You said you wanted to steal some shite—let's get on with it, then."

And Michael _knows_ this is as good a time as any to push him a little on this, to make sure this mystery person on the phone isn't a threat, to make sure Gavin's _okay_. But the opportunity is fading the longer he hesitates, and instead he just starts driving again, turning on the radio to fill the quiet.

 

—

 

The gas station they end up at is a familiar one, kind of close to the beach. When he locks eyes with the clerk through the windows, the poor sap flips him off. Gavin gives a startled little laugh from behind him. He'd relaxed a bit on the drive over, but now he’s hanging close to Michael, one hand fisted in the back of Michael's jacket.

"You know that guy?" Gavin whispers. Michael laughs, not even bothering to be subtle as he moves towards the doors, one hand on his gun.

"Yeah—this is where the crew normally stops after good heists. The cameras are from, like, the fucking Stone Age, and Geoff’s been hooked on their icees recently.” He swings the door open and holds it for Gavin, the tinkle of a little bell announcing their entrance.

“Hey Angelo!” Michael calls towards the cashier, “Just popping in for a bit. I’d normally point a gun at you now, but I think you know the drill.” Angelo doesn’t even grace him with an actual response, just gives him a nasty look before going back to tapping away at his phone. He’s cool. Michael likes him.

“How do you want to do this?” he asks Gavin, just like with the fireworks all over again. He can _see_ the moment Gavin shrugs off his nerves, realizing he has control over the situation.

“Well,” he says, eyes raking over the aisles of cheap snacks, “I am feeling kind of hungry.” Michael grins. Raiding the food it is, then.

They start combing through the aisles, laughing at the weird shit they find while the ever long-suffering cashier watches on. Gavin finds some biscuit and gravy flavored chips and gags so hard at the taste that Michael’s genuinely impressed he doesn’t blow chunks all over the tiles. Then Gavin bets him twenty quid he can’t finish an icee made out of all the flavors mixed together. Michael has no idea how much money that is in American terms but if it means beating Gavin, he wants it.

“You want me to hit the panic button?” Angelo asks after a few minutes while Michael’s examining the lighters, pocketing one with a cat wearing sunglasses for Lindsay and one with the Union Jack for Gavin. Consolation prize after totally beating the shit out of his bet, brain freezes be damned.

“Sure.” Michael shrugs, still preoccupied with rifling through the assorted shit around the counter. Gavin, the fucking amateur, freaks out and grabs his arm.

“Michael, don’t let him!” He seems genuinely worried, like the fucking _LSPD_ could actually take them out. Michael laughs, and Gavin’s brow furrows even deeper.

“It’s no fun getting away with something if no one tries to catch you,” Michael explains. That seems to pacify him a bit, and he goes back to loading up a cloth shopping bag with bags of Skittles. At least he’s being environmentally conscious.  

“We’ve probably got ten minutes,” Michael calls over the shelves to Gavin. He nods. Michael takes his time combing through the shelves again, even though he already has enough junk food stuffed in his bag to last him through Armageddon. The trick is to let the police get _just_ close enough to see them leave, and then they can have some fun. He wants to find out if Gavin just gags over food shit, or if a high speed chase will be enough to trigger some motion sickness.

“More like three,” Angelo says out of nowhere, an offhand comment that Michael almost misses.

“What?”

Angelo looks up from his phone. “I said they’ll be here pretty quick. There’s a mugging ring that’s started hitting around here, scared some of the rich people. So there’s been more patrol cars. Like I said, three minutes.” He glances out the window and his eyes widen. “Actually, um, nevermind on the three minutes part.”

“ _Shit,”_ Michael mutters, turning to go grab Gavin when he sees blue lights through the window. No fucking sirens because they’re probably hoping to catch them by surprise, shoot first and ask questions later. They already toe the line with bribes and deep corruption, but the LSPD could have a good mind for crime if they really applied themselves.

Gavin’s frozen and staring out the window, the lights dancing over his face. There’s three of them by the parking lot’s exit that Michael can see, and probably more on the way if they think they’re about to catch something good. And even if Michael doesn’t know shit about this mugging ring, the police chief would probably still cream himself at the idea of slotting a few Fakes.

It’ll be a little more intense of a chase than he was hoping, but they can still salvage this. Geoff will definitely kill them later, but hopefully he has enough supplies in his car to make it through the immediate mess at hand.

“Can you shoot?” Michael asks him, grabbing his shoulder and spinning Gavin towards him. He shakes Gavin a bit until he blinks hard out of his stupor. “Can you shoot?” Michael repeats. Gavin shakes his head. “Then you’re driving, c’mon.”

“I—” A bullet shatters through the window and Gavin’s mouth snaps shut. They both flinch back, Michael’s hand tightening on Gavin’s arm. “It’s time to go,” he says, casting one last glance at Angelo and yelling over, “You had no idea who we were—never even seen us before.” Angelo gives a mock salute. Michael makes a note to up their protection over this place, maybe slip them some money under the counter. Provided they even get out of here alive, of course.

“Now listen,” he tells Gavin, clicking the safety off of his gun. “Stay behind me and do what I say—keep your head down and stay moving.” In the parking lot more officers are stepping out of their cars, guns drawn. They don’t all even have body armor—he’ll begrudgingly give the LSPD points in the “stupid but brave” category.

“We’ll be fine,” he tacks on as an afterthought. It’s somewhere between a truth and lie, but Gavin seems to trust it—looking a little green around the gills, but still determined.

His free hand wraps around Gavin’s without much thought. Gavin makes a weird little noise but Michael ignores it—it’ll make it easier to drag Gavin through this mess. A few more bullets whiz through the splintered glass, either shitty aim or more warning shots. He’s trying to build a map in his head, they parked on the side like _idiots_ so it’ll take a hell of a lot of luck to make it through no man’s land, but around the corner it’ll take a few seconds for the officers to reposition themselves. Not _great,_ but not the worst odds either.

 _Three, two, one._ He takes a deep breath before darting out of the shelves, pulling Gavin along with him. His heart’s pounding in his chest as he shoves the door open, the sound of the bell lost to the staccato of gunfire.

Bullets crack against the wall behind them as they make a break for it—he barely notices over his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Gavin is squeezing his hand so hard it aches but it ground him as they run the short distance that feels like miles.

He spins around the corner and freezes so suddenly that Gavin crashes into his back. There’s an officer pressed against the wall, white-knuckling their gun against their chest. Two guns raise. _Three, two—_

Michael fires.

The officer crumbles, sliding down the wall decorated in bits of their brain. Michael’s already moving, tugging his hand free of Gavin’s to yank open the car door. Gavin’s staring at the body looking almost confused, and they _do not have time for this shit._

“Get in the car!” Michael yells, shoving the keys into his hands before firing at one of the officers running their way. “Go, go, go!”

There’s a few horrible seconds where Gavin fumbles the keys, then struggles getting the car out of park, and all the while Michael’s adrenaline is soaring sky high in the worst fucking way. Danger’s fun, he fucking loves it, but now all he feels is an urgency that’s just shy of frantic. When a bullet punches through the backseat door his first thought is _we’re gonna get fucking killed. Gavin’s gonna die and it’s gonna be my fault for taking him out here—_

Then Gavin’s tearing out of the parking lot, popping over the curb and into the street with screeching tires. Another bullet whizzes through the car and Gavin flinches but keeps them steady. The cop cars fly out of the lot to follow them like a plague of locusts. Michael leans out of the window and fires the last of his bullets into the cars behind them, other hand fumbling in the glove box for another gun.

And they’re going, going, _gone._

 

—

 

“What do you mean you _don’t know how to fucking drive?!”_

“I never learned!” Gavin cries, hooking a left so wide that they bump against a streetlight. He curses for the millionth fucking time, almost dropping the gun he’s trying to reload.

“Fucking watch it!” he snaps, leaning out the window to scan the street behind them. The cop cars fly through the intersection, passing them by. “Okay, okay—they’re not behind us anymore. Turn right here, we’ll find somewhere to bunker down. There should be a parking garage up here we can use.”

Gavin nods, jerking the wheel way too hard and giving him a sheepish glance when they scrape against the curb. Then he frowns, one hand moving to brush against Michael's arm.

"You're bleeding."

Michael follows his gaze and, huh, he is. With the adrenaline he'd barely noticed but he must've gotten grazed when they were running out of the gas station. His sleeve is ripped and blood's steadily leaking from the wound. Now that he's aware of it he can feel it throbbing steadily in time with his heartbeat. It won't kill him, though, and right now that's all he cares about.

Gavin keeps darting little glances over at him, tracking the streaks of blood on his jacket and frowning. It's weird and kind of touching to see him look so concerned about it.

"Eyes on the road, stupid you're gonna—oh _shit_ —"

Down the road are two cops cars are parked longways across the street, the officers out of their cars and already firing. One bullet pings too close for comfort off of their right mirror.

He yells for Gavin to just aim right for them. He doesn't see any SWAT vans or spike strips. If they floor it they should be able to push through, catch the officers by surprise before they land a lucky shot—

At about fifty feet out Gavin shrieks and slams on the breaks.

Michael flies forward with a startled shout, catching himself on his arms against the dashboard. His gun clatters to the floorboards and he leans down to pick it up—

Down the road, an officer lines up the shot. Three, two _one_.

And with deadly aim they fire.

There's a second of tense silence as Michael snatches up his gun and starts to sit up. Then the windshield shatters over his back and he flinches back down. Glass rains off his shirt and out of his hair as straightens again and fires through the ruined windshield, one of the  officers crumpling to the ground with an anguished scream.

_"Drive!"_

Gavin floors it and they crash through the miniature blockade with a horrible crunch of metal. His car is going to be fucking ruined after this but he almost doesn't care—better going to a mechanic than a morgue.

 

—

 

After the first few blocks of silence it all starts to sink in. He starts laughing, a little hysterically. Gavin shoots him a look, but in a second he's joining in, stress giving way to pure _relief_.

There'll be more heat on the crew for the next few weeks and Geoff will absolutely be pissed about that, but right now they'll be scattered all over the city, clueless over the over what just happened. With any luck the whole mugging ring thing will muddy the waters even further. But for now, the streets are quiet again.

"Pull over," he tells Gavin, "We're switching drivers before you fucking kill us both."

"I wasn't _that_ bad," Gavin says, flapping a hand. Michael just raises an eyebrow as he tries to pull over and ends up popping one wheel up over the curb.

"Tell that to all the streetlights you obliterated. There was this guy, R—I mean, this guy in our crew who couldn't drive for shit. Literally hit me with a car on a heist one time. And somehow you were _worse_ —" He looks over at Gavin as he steps out onto the sidewalk, only to find the man's face blank. Maybe he noticed Michael almost slipping up and mentioning Ray by name, but surely there'd still be _some_ sort of reaction.

Then he sees what Gavin's looking at.

Right in the center of Michael's headrest is a bullet hole. The shot that broke the windshield would've blown his fucking brains out if he hadn't been reaching down for his gun. A cold shiver worms its way down his spine. An instant's difference and there would've been no walking away from that. Suddenly the image of Gavin staring down the police with Michael's dead fucking body in the seat next to him is...kind of horrifying.

One look into Gavin's eyes and he can tell he's imagining the same thing. Michael leans back into the car, one knee resting on the seat as he goes to squeeze Gavin's arm. Little bits of glass dig into him but he barely notices, leaning further forward until their foreheads are almost touching.

"I'm alive, okay?” He rubs awkward circles into Gavin's shoulder, trying to find a way to figure out a way to tell him that sometimes you just get lucky, and sometimes you don't. Finally he settles on, "You got us out of there." Gavin nods solemnly and breaks away, getting into the back seat to avoid all the glass.

The drive back to the penthouse is filled with a ringing silence.

 

—

 

Geoff doesn't kill them. Which is great, because by the time they drag themselves back into the penthouse the sun is lightening the horizon and all Michael wants to do is sleep for a week. There's a bit of yelling that he halfway registers, something about how poor, _sweet_ Geoff got woken by a hundred phone calls from Trevor about their little excursion, and their radio silence afterward. He threatens some kind of punishment but Michael's honestly too tired to care. Knowing Geoff he'll probably just make them clean the penthouse, or something.

Then the yelling turns to quiet swearing as Geoff helps clean and stitch up his arm and pick the glass out of his skin. He makes Michael promise to stop getting into messes like this, and he agrees like it means anything.

And then finally, _sleep_.

He sinks down against the pillows, sighing as the aches from tonight and his still-healing injuries settle. His eyes are just about to slip shut when the door swings open.

Even with his glasses off, he knows it's Gavin. As he gets closer Michael can see how fucking _wiped_ he looks. Join the club, buddy.

He waits for him to say something, some grand announcement that justifies him carving time out of Michael's beauty sleep. But Gavin stays quiet, sitting down on the other side of the bed and studiously not looking at him.

“What the fuck,” is all he can manage, propping himself up on one elbow and rubbing at his eyes on the off chance he’s hallucinating. Gavin’s changed into pajamas but his face still has little smears of blood on it from what Michael assumes was the glass from the windshield. There’s something disturbingly empty about the look in his eyes, and Michael decides he’s seen that one too many times tonight.

“So that was kind of a shitshow, huh?” he says more softly, trying to get Gavin to say _anything._ “Can’t believe I almost died for a bag of Funions.” The laugh he tacks on to the end comes out forced, and Gavin’s face twists.

“It wasn’t bloody _funny,_ ” he snaps.

“Laugh or cry, man,” is all he manages before breaking off into a yawn. He sits up fully and notices Gavin tracking the motion from his peripherals. “Besides, it was my fucking fault for letting him hit the panic button so early. Stupid mistake.”

Gavin’s shaking his head. “You keep getting hurt around me. I—” He trails off, wrapping his arms around himself. “And it’s been my fault every time. You’d probably be better off not hanging around me.” His voice is almost a whisper and sounds dangerously close to cracking.

“Stop with that shit,” he says, maybe a little more harshly than he’d meant to. He presses on. “I already said that whole police chase thing was on me. And I was the one that brought us out there in the first place. Wasn’t your fault.”

“But what happened on that last job was.”

“Were you the one who threw me out of that window?” He waits until Gavin slowly shakes his head. “Then that wasn’t on you either.” He bites his lip, not sure if he should continue. Gavin’s hands are clenched white-knuckled around the blankets. There’s gotta be something driving this that Michael’s not getting—Gavin’s been freezing up all night and he bets it all ties back to that phone call earlier.

But he’s really fucking freaked out right now and they’re both exhausted. This isn’t the time to press—soon, but not tonight. He takes a second to stretch and rub the sleep out of his eyes. Sleep might not be coming as soon as he thought.

“So I have that new Mario game,” he tells Gavin, watching his reaction as he blindly fumbles around his nightstand for his Switch. “It has co-op, I think, if you want to help me get some shit.” Gavin gives a little smile and scoots closer. That’s progress, and Michael grins.

“Okay, so here’s what’s happened so far—” He launches into the explanation which as much energy as he can drum up, relieved to watch Gavin visibly start to relax. By the time Michael’s booted up the game and given him a controller they’re sitting so close that their knees bump together. Gavin rests his head against Michael’s shoulder but he doesn’t comment. The warm weight is reassuring, reminds him that they’re both _alive._

By the time the sun’s risen, they’re both fast asleep.

 

—

 

He half stirs once to a flurry of sound in the hallway. He groans and moves to flop over onto his stomach, only to bump against something warm. Through bleary eyes he sees Gavin, face buried in his pillows against the afternoon sun. _Huh._

Gavin makes a little noise and shifts closer, dropping one arm over Michael’s back. All his half-asleep brain registers is _comfy_ as he settles against his chest. By his next breath, he's asleep again.

And when he wakes again up a few hours later, the sheets are crumpled and empty.

 

—

 

He takes Gavin to the desert. It makes sense until he has a very uneasy Gavin in the car next to him. He’d figured they could get out of the penthouse again without almost dying this time, somewhere pretty and isolated enough that the police probably won’t bother patrolling. The sun’s only just started setting. His plan is to get some answers out of Gavin and then drive them back for a real night’s sleep.

He’d kind of forgotten that tugging on someone’s arm until they follow you to their car and then driving them out into the middle of fucking nowhere comes off more like a murder thing than a friend thing. He’d like to think that Gavin’s noticed he doesn’t fucking despise him anymore, but you can never be too sure.

“You can stop acting like you’re about to star in a slasher film,” he says, turning off the dirt road and into a little park. “You’re not hot enough to be in one of those anyway,” he adds on and fails to bite back his laugh at Gavin’s indignant splutter.

“It’s always the ugly friend who makes it out though, yeah?”

“That’s—you’re insulting yourself _fo_ r me. But whatever helps you sleep at night, dude.”

Gavin doesn't dignify that with a response, just rolling his eyes before getting out of the car. He stretches and it sounds like firecrackers when his back pops. Michael makes a face that Gavin ignores. He's sweeping the landscape, frowning.

"There's nothing out here."

Michael points to an abandoned hot dog stand. "See? Civilization." Gavin doesn't look very convinced. But Michael bets he's going to like what he has planned.

"See those big piles of white rocks?” Gavin nods. “We’re climbing the big one.”

 

-

 

Turns out Gavin has the coordination of a baby deer. His climbing strategy seems to just be to scramble up the sun-warmed rocks as fast as possible. Michael just sighs and adjusts his bag, keeping an eye out in case he has to catch Gavin again. Can’t have the idiot busting his head open, after all.

The boulder on top is wide and flat, perfect for sitting. It’s a bit of a jump, though. His plan is to jump and pull himself up before pulling Gavin up after him, but on his first attempt his sore arms tell him to fuck right off with that idea.

“If your stitches start coming out I might vomit.”

“They don’t just—whatever. I’ll give you a boost and you can help me up.” Gavin seems kind of skeptical, rocking on the balls of his feet and almost losing his balance _again._ “You’re taller anyway,” Michael tacks on as an afterthought. “C’mon.”

He gives Gavin a second to brace himself and then Michael’s reaching down, wrapping his arms around Gavin’s thighs and lifting. Gavin makes this _squeak_ that’s fucking hilarious, has Michael laughing and almost forgetting the dull ache in his shoulder, in the bullet graze from last night. For a second Gavin just flails, but he manages to get a solid handhold and makes it up top. Michael passes him his backpack, and with minimal cursing on both ends makes it onto the boulder too.

“Michael,” Gavin says after they’ve gotten comfortable, with that shit-eating grin he’s gotten so familiar with, “You took me to see the sunset again, Michael.”

 _“Twice,”_ he reminds him, “And both times it’s been for other shit, calm down.”

Gavin starts swinging his legs over the edge, still grinning like a fool. “But it’s _romantic,_ boi.” He rolls his eyes, but takes a second to look up at the clouds. It’s not quite as beautiful as their Chilliad sunset, but still pretty good. Gavin pulls out his phone and starts taking photos of the sunset, tongue poked out in concentration. Yeah, pretty good.

“Alright,” He almost doesn’t want to ruin the moment, but if they don’t get this out of the way now it’ll just hang in the air forever. “Time to talk about last night, Gav.”

“Why?” In an instant he’s shying away again, sunset forgotten.

“I don’t know, because we’re friends? We’re _bois.”_

“Boi friends?”

“Fuck off,” he says, mostly directed at himself when he has the annoying realization that his cheeks feel warm. At least Gavin’s smiling again. He snatches his backpack and takes a second to look purposefully through it, giving his face a second to get its shit together. He pulls out his jacket and a little sewing kit.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to sew up the tear in my jacket and _you’re_ going to tell me why you kept freezing up last night.”

“I don’t understand why this is so bloody important to you.”

Michael shrugs. “It’s a dangerous habit to have if you’re gonna be running with this crew. And I kind of like having you around, so. I don’t need your tragic backstory or any of that shit, just what was freaking you out so bad so that we can keep it from happening next time.” Gavin takes a deep breath, but he doesn’t immediately jump off the rock and into the night, so Michael figures it’s not hopeless yet.

“How did you get into all this?” Michael blinks. That really hadn’t been what he’d expected.

“You’re full of questions tonight, aren’t you?.” But he might as well answer, if it’ll get them somewhere.

“It’s pretty standard stuff. Started getting into shit in high school, then me and—me and my friend kind of jumped right into the deep end. We got really good at tying up other people’s loose ends. Geoff liked our stuff and we needed a crew’s protection, so we joined. Geoff’s probably told you about the rest.” He threads the needle and spreads the jacket over his lap, waiting to see if Gavin has anything to add.

“You were in the Cockbites with Geoff, right?” he prods when the silence stretches on. “With Burnie, Gus, and the rest of them before Geoff split off and came out here.” Gavin nods slowly.

“Geoff and I met playing Halo,” Gavin starts, staring down at the ground, “One thing led to another and there wasn’t much going on in my life, so on a whim I went to Texas. First time I ever fired a gun, you know, just at some cans and I was absolute crap at it—they were never able to teach me. Was even worse when the targets were alive.” A hollow laugh. “But we never did much of that, really just stupid pranks and little robberies here and there to stay afloat. We must’ve spray painted dicks on half the buildings in the city. It wasn’t until the end that serious jobs started coming our way.”

“Why didn’t you go to Los Santos with Geoff, or stay with the Cockbites?” He tries to get Gavin to look him in the eyes, but the other man turns away. So Michael goes back to sewing, and waits until Gavin finds the right words.

“I don’t _know,_ ” Gavin says finally. “I thought I could fix my life back in England, or something. But everything was _weird,_ and everyone had already gotten used to me being gone. I kept jumping cities and just traveling all around, but none of it felt right, I guess. Settled down a little and got some work, but I had pretty much no money left by then so I was stuck for a few years.”

“What sort of stuff did you do? I can’t see you as a hitman, and you definitely don’t have the fine motor skills to do anything with explosives.”

“Hey!” Gavin cries, and Michael’s honestly just happy that he’s shaken off some of the heaviness that’d been weighing down on his shoulders. He does look kind of nervous, though.

“I won’t laugh, dude. I get that not all crew work is super badass, and starting in a new one they’d probably put you in a bunch of boring jobs. Geoff had me cleaning our guns for what felt like—”

“I wasn’t in a crew, Michael.” Gavin takes a deep breath. “I was working in a fucking _grocery store.”_

 _“Jesus Christ,”_ Michael wheezes.

“You said you wouldn’t laugh!”

“I’m not, I’m not—” He covers his mouth with one hand, almost dropping the needle with how hard he’s shaking trying to hold it all back. “It just— _god_ that explains so much!” And then he can’t hold the laughter back anymore, and he has to take a minute to compose himself.

“So I’m assuming the grocery store sucked ass and you saved up to come out here? Is that why you had no luggage, to save money?”

Gavin bites his lip. “Not...quite. But it is why I was bloody useless last night—not very used to police chases.”

“Makes sense. But practice makes perfect, right?” Gavin huffs.

“Don’t make it sound like I’m trying to learn how to ride a bike or some shite. You almost _died.”_

“So did you,” Michael points out. “The police in this city aren’t super keen on taking any of us alive. And besides, there’s other things you can do in the crew that would keep you out of stuff like that if you really want to. No pressure.” He ties off the last stitch and puts away the sewing kit.

Gavin opens his mouth to say something but gets cut off by a gust of wind. It gets a little colder in the night here but a little breeze shouldn’t be too dramatic, but Gavin’s twig-skinny and apparently a weak bitch. He makes a show out of rubbing on his arms to warm them up, hunching into himself. It’s probably just to distract from their talk that got a bit too serious, but Michael plays along.

He chucks his jacket at Gavin, laughing when he gives a startled squawk. When he realizes what hit him, though, and gets this shy little look on his face. He shrugs the jacket on, and Michael knows he probably just got played, but he also really doesn’t care.

He’s pulling his phone out before he can think better of it. The light’s fading fast but he still manages to get a few good ones: Gavin making a stupid face at the camera, a blurry one where he tries to snatch Michael’s phone. The last one is the best—Gavin has his head thrown back, laughing, and it’s just the right angle for the wolf decal on the back of Michael’s jacket to show.

He goes to set it as Gavin’s contact photo. Why not, right? He wouldn’t mind seeing it again when Gavin floods his phone with “I’m bored” texts. But when he opens Gavin’s contact, he frowns. It’s something he’d never really noticed before, but—

Gavin has a Los Santos area code.

He tries to think back to when Gavin first got here, if Geoff might’ve gotten him a new phone or something. He’s drawing a blank, and before he can think any more about it, Gavin’s trying to get his attention.

“Michael! Take a photo that looks like I’m falling off, I want to send it to Geoff.” So he does. Then _that_ launches a fucking stupid photoshoot, from the _Titanic_ pose to _Lion King’s_ “long live the king” shot.

They dick around until the sun slips beneath the horizon. He’s glad they did this. But as  they tumble back into the car, he’s struck with the feeling that his questions weren’t quite answered at all.

 

—

 

Things fall back to their usual flow. Michael’s injuries from the window incident fade to scars and Gavin’s not running around like a man possessed. It’s good, even better when he can get back to work. Geoff even relents on trying to keep them in the penthouse all the fucking time—whoever attacked them all those weeks ago has been quiet long enough that they’ve written it off as just another branch of the crew they were wiping out, or maybe some thugs they hired for protection.

Gavin goes out more too, to the range with Ryan, or helps Jeremy pick out his atrocious heist outfits. Michael doesn’t see him as much, but when he does Gavin’s more tactile, and a little quieter when it’s just the two of them. It’s nice, though, and on the nights Michael goes back to his apartment he can count on playing video games until the early hours of the morning with him.

Working again is great, too. They’re still in a bit of a dry spell, but there’s always something to do in the area. He’s just gotten back from a little drag racing with Jack, pocket stuffed full of cash, when he checks his phone.

_Gavin :^): I’ve just had the best idea_

And then there’s some texts from Lindsay from just a few minutes ago.

 _Lindsay_ ^-^ _: Come to my apartment right now_

_Linsday ^-^: right MEOW_

_Lindsay ^-^: haha_

 

-

 

“He got you a _cat?!”_

“Technically we both helped pick her out. And now that I actually live here full time, I decided, why not? Meet Tinky.” She waves a hand towards the big gray cat curled up on her couch in a sun puddle, seeming very disinterested in both of them as she looks them over with one green eye.

“A cat,” Michael repeats, not completely sure that this is actually happening. “Named _Tinky.”_

“Hey, don’t insult her name! She’s very sensitive.” The cat doesn’t seem to agree, turning away to groom herself. “That was the name they gave her at the shelter,” Lindsay continues, “And it’s better than Gavin’s idea—he wanted to name her _Horse.”_

“I mean, it’s still not as bad as _Tinky.”_

“Michael Jones,” she says and he does _not_ like the look of the smile on her face, “You’re further gone than I thought.”

“What the fuck is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Youuuu,” She points a finger at him, “Immediately sided with Gavin, full stop. A very _chivalrous_ thing to do.”

“That’s—” he splutters, “That has literally nothing to do with anything, have you lost your fucking _mind?”_

“Nope,” she says brightly, looking a little too pleased with herself. “But you’re right, defending his horrible idea doesn’t _necessarily_ mean anything, but how red your face got when I implied that _does.”_

“You’re evil.” The cat stretches before jumping off the couch, rubbing against his legs until he caves and runs a hand down her back. “See? Tinky agrees with me.” Lindsay just rolls her eyes, sitting down on the couch and motioning for him to join her.

“Seriously though, you know I don’t normally meddle in your bullshit.” Fuck, it’s gonna be one of _those_ conversations. “But if we don’t talk this out you’ll just be emotionally constipated forever. So, you realize that you bonded with Gavin like a million times faster than you have with anyone else, right?”

_“What?”_

“God, okay, so that’s a no. Remember when I first met you?” He shrugs. “Well, I told you good morning and I’m pretty sure you actually growled at me.” He remembers Geoff’s comment about he and Ray showing up at the penthouse feral, and scowls.

“I wasn’t _that_ bad. And it was fucking forever ago, anyway. Who cares?”

“Then what about Jeremy? You spent the first month after he joined convinced he was some deep web hitman hired to take us out.” He...he can’t argue with that one, actually.

“He could do a _backflip!_ Regular mercs can’t just _do_ that! But you know who can? Highly trained people who can do spy movie shit and—”

“Michael, spy movie shit was literally my job until a little bit ago, and I can’t even do a cartwheel. Stop trying to change the fucking subject, though, we’re trying to have a serious _feelings_ talk.” Michael groans and throws his head back. Lindsay just pats him on the shoulder before getting back to dissecting his love life in what’s turning out to be the worst conversation of all time.

“So according to Gavin, you fucking _hated_ him at the start, right?” He nods reluctantly. “And then you moved onto the second stage, deep distrust.” He shoots her a look. “Yes, you’re that predictable. But you cycled through all of this in, what, a weekend? Even if we both know he’s sometimes more than a little suspicious.” For a second he’s about to interrupt and say that he knows Gavin’s not dangerous now, that he might even _trust_ him, but that would only prove whatever point Lindsay’s trying to make.

“Gavin showed me the photos you two took at the desert. Apparently you took, like, a dozen photos just of him smiling and wearing your jacket.” Michael blinks. He remembers tossing Gavin his phone on the ride back so he could pick which photos to send to himself, but he’d figured he’d just kept the funny ones.

“So all I’ll say is that Gavin got all red-faced and weird when I asked about it, and you’ve been doing similar shit too. Did something...happen out there?”

“What?! No!” After that knee-jerk outburst he takes a deep breath. If they’re going to talk about this shit, he might as well do it right and get it over with. “He was just being kind of weird, like Gavin-flirting, I guess.”

“Gavin-flirting.” Lindsay repeats. “What the hell does _that_ mean?”

“Working definition—” he starts, then realizes he doesn’t really know what that means, either. “I’m not sure, he just—it’s stupid.” But Lindsay’s waiting patiently, and even the fucking cat is watching him. “That night and ever since he makes these little comments and does shit that I guess _could_ be flirting, but as soon as I call him on it he freaks out. It’s fucking weird.” He starts running the past week through his head, of all the times Gavin made their avatars in video games kiss, or joked about how Michael loved him too much to let “mingey old _Ryan”_ kill him for being annoying, or how he liked to drape himself over Michael’s back and complain he was tired, or—

“Do you want him to stop?” _I don’t._

And just like that, shit kind of starts to make sense.

 

—

 

Lindsay’s advice had been to, “just kiss him right on his stupid mouth.” He thinks about it for all of half a second before his brain starts melting, and he decides to take like eighty steps back from that concept. It’s totally possible that they’re just stupid and have their feelings all mixed up, after all.

So the next logical part of his plan is to make dinner reservations at a place that just happens to be a _little_ bit on the nicer side. Because Gavin’s never gone and their food’s good as shit. Seems logical. The more he bullshits his way through the master plan, the more fake confidence he gets in the idea.

He starts by inviting Gavin out to the beach. The restaurant’s in walking distance and he wants to make sure Gavin isn’t completely freaked out by the idea before they go. He makes sure to set the reservation for later so that they shouldn’t get to the beach until it’s almost dark. He says it’s so they can see the pier all lit up, but he really just doesn’t want to be so predictable that he takes Gavin to a good sunset watching point for the _third_ time.

Gavin seems interested in going to the beach, at least— even if he’s mostly absorbed in an intense round of Towerfall. But after a minute he even lets Lindsay kill him so he can turn and talk, which Michael’s oddly touched by.

The next round starts and the plans for the beach are all set when Michael adds, “Don’t dress like a bum—If you want, we’ll get dinner after.” Gavin fumbles with his controller, startled just long enough for Jeremy to obliterate his character.

Michael leaves the room smug, but also _excited_ in a way that he hasn’t felt in a long, long time.

 

—

 

The pier looks pretty lit up. He’s been watching the ferris wheel’s spinning patterns, almost hypnotized by it as he tries very hard not to freak out. See, he wasn’t nervous when he tried to figure out what to wear, or when he’d seen Gavin’s outfit. Skinny jeans and a navy top, and apparently _sunglasses_ because they “completed the look.”

Wasn’t nervous as they drove out here, either, because it was just like always. Singing along to shitty songs on the radio, bitching about the traffic and pointing out landmarks around the city to Gavin. Like the bank he robbed on his first heist for the Fakes, fun little stuff like that.

But now that they’ve spread out the blanket, and made all the appropriate comments about how nice the pier looks and how calming the sea sounds—he has no idea what the fuck to talk about. _Hey, Gavin, what if this was a date or something? What if Lindsay was dead wrong and I’m just fucking shit up? What if—_

“Michael—” He jumps so hard at Gavin’s voice he almost fucking falls over. “Sorry,” Gavin says sheepishly, and in that moment Michael hates himself for acting so fucking weird when everything was hunky dory a few minutes ago.

“I don’t want to make a habit out of this every time we’re hanging out somewhere,” Gavin hesitates, fiddling with sunglasses where they’re hooked on his collar. “There’s just something I’d like to tell you, and if I don’t do it now I probably never will.”

“Go for it,” Michael says, probably sounding a little bit like he’s dying. “Got something to tell you, too.” Gavin opens his mouth and Michael’s heart rate doubles. A detached part of him is a little appalled by how worked up he is over this, just a little confession about—

“I wasn’t in any crews in England.” The words rush out of Gavin’s mouth like it hurts to say them. “But I was in one here.” Fuck his heart speeding up, now it’s just _stopped._ If this was anyone else he’d’ve pulled a gun by now. But instead he just sits and listens.

“For a year and a half before calling Geoff, I was living here and working for this little crew. It happened kind of on accident—I really was trying to find Geoff at first, but I was too much of a fucking coward to just call him up. I figured I’d need some kind of skill for him to let me work for him, something useful.” Michael’s brain is filled with static, barely processing the things Gavin’s saying. This is dangerous, this could be betrayal. But it’s _Gavin._

“So I started running with this little mugging ring,” Gavin continues. “—not so little now, though. They call themselves the Raiders. I think they’re who that guy at the gas station was talking about, their base is really near there.” He takes a deep breath, wrapping his arms around himself. “You’ve met them before, actually. They’re the ones who attacked you all when you were wiping out that little crew. I didn’t—”

He breaks off, eyes wide and panicked. “I didn’t know they were allied, I _swear._ It must’ve happened after I left. That was what that phone call was about, that you overheard a few weeks ago. But—” He screws his eyes shut. “I should’ve put the pieces together. I was...close, with the leader, and I knew he’d been reaching out to some smaller groups in the area. There was a safehouse of ours nearby, that crew must’ve called for help and they were there before I even _realized—”_

Michael should say something, he should absolutely say _anything,_ but his throat feels too tight. Something about this still feels _wrong,_ like the waves will crash down on them if Gavin keeps talking. For a too-long minute there’s frozen silence, and then Gavin continues.

“I should’ve left sooner than I did. But it was...nice, there. The leader thought I was funny, I guess, and we actually hung out a lot. I helped them set up surveillance cameras, did a lot of other basic nonsense that they probably didn’t need. The leader used to joke that I was just there as the court jester, or something like that. But I had a life there, even saved up and got this shitty little apartment.”

Gavin pulls his knees up to his chest, looking lost and way more alone than he should be when he’s just a foot away. He’s staring out at the ocean, and Michael’s finally starting to understand that empty way his eyes get every now and then. Sometimes things get fucked up, and they can’t always be put back together.

So he scoots closer, wrapping an arm over Gavin’s shoulders and looking out at the water with him. He knows he’s made the right choice when Gavin slumps against him, resting his head on Michael’s shoulder.

“Maybe a month before calling Geoff I was just hanging out with the boss, and he starts telling me stories about jobs he’s been on before, all that. And I was really excited, because he had always been really cagey about his past. So he tells this story about an old boss he had who tried to rob a bank dressed as Abraham Lincoln and—”

“You realized he was talking about Geoff.” Gavin nods. It’s a story Geoff tells fucking _everyone,_ but only a handful of people were actually _there._ There’s a cold dread brewing in the pit of his stomach, but he asks anyway.

“Gavin, what was that guy’s name?” He stares up at the stars while he waits for an answer. He’s not really sure what he wants to hear.

“He had his employees call him Tafkar. But his real name was Ray.” Michael’s blood turns to ice. He barely notices when he starts laughing, half hysterical gasps that are probably scaring the shit out of Gavin.

“Tafkar,” he breathes, “Fucking means ‘The Artist Formerly Known as Ray.'” He pulls himself together before he starts laughing again. His breath keeps getting caught in his throat. Ray’s someone he hasn’t seen in a _long_ fucking time, and the fact that he’s probably only a few miles away right now rubs salt in a wound that he’d thought had closed a long time ago.

“Makes sense,” Gavin says and gives a little chuckle. “He was always one for jokes like that.” And then after a beat of silence, he keeps going with the story. Michael listens with bated breath, eyes focusing in and out on the smudged patches of stars visible through the city light.

“I should’ve just lied, said I’d heard the story from somewhere before. But I told him I _knew_ Geoff, and he, well, he freaked out. When Geoff came out to visit me that one time he’d told me about how someone had left their crew. I realized pretty quickly that that must’ve been him. He started spouting all this stuff about how I had to leave the city, and if I told Geoff where he was or what he was doing he’d kill me. Figured it was just empty threats.”

“Ray did kick me out though, too fucking paranoid to realize I wasn’t even _talking_ to Geoff at all then. He blamed the Fakes destroying one of our warehouses on me leaking information, even if it was just bad luck. I stayed in the city kind of just mucking about. I had just lost my job, after all.”

“Then he started sending muggers after me. I knew most of them, and it wasn’t like they hurt me or anything. Normally they’d just take a dollar or two, and pass on the message that I should get the fuck out of the city. Some of them started getting...angrier, though. Were convinced I was a traitor, and were pissed that I was being given so many chances to run. I saw one of them lurking near my apartment, and that was it. Called Geoff, and here I am.”

“Holy shit.” It takes a second to form a more eloquent response, but _holy shit._ “Are they...are they still following you around?”

“Nah,” Gavin says with what sounds like a fuckload of forced calm. “Took a lot of angry phone calls but I’ve kind of been black-mailing Ray. I told him that if he tries to make me leave the city again I’ll tell Geoff _everything._ I wouldn’t actually, but it’s worked well enough so far. And he won’t try to bump me off or anything drastic, he’s careful not to mess with any of you all too badly.”

“We’ll keep you safe,” he says, almost like a reflex.

“I know you will, lovely Michael.” For a few minutes they just watch the waves fall against the shore. Michael’s pretty sure it’s over, and he takes a while to try to wrap his head around everything he’s just been told. There’s the annoying part of him that just keeps chanting _Ray, Ray Ray,_ but he squashes it down to piece through Gavin’s story. He believes it, that’s not even a question. And it explains a lot—how Gavin knew the city so well, why the ambush affected him so badly.

Something in him aches at the idea of Gavin going through all of that. Finding and losing homes he’d built over and over. Michael swearing blind at the beginning of it all that Gavin didn’t belong couldn’t have helped. But Gavin’s a part of them now, he can feel it in his bones. And Michael’s certainly not going anywhere.

“Were you and Ray close?” Gavin asks after all the silence. It’s not a question Michael’d expected. Thinking about how to answer, all he feels his heavy.

“I fucking dated that loser,” he says finally, “I’d say I knew him better than anyone.”

“Well shit,” Gavin says and Michael can’t help but laugh a little at how stunned he sounds. “I was going to ask you if you knew why he left, but—”

“Job went wrong,” Michael’s saying before he can stop himself. The words sound weird coming out of his mouth—pretty much everyone in the crew already knows the story at some level, and it’s not exactly fun water cooler talk.

“There was a lot of shit going on, but I made a stupid fucking mistake. Ray was pinned down near this gas station and I should’ve just let him handle it like I knew he could, but—As he was running out of there I tried to cover him, and one fucking unlucky shot hit one of the tanks. Ray got out of it fine, but four civilians died.” That last detail was something that only Ray had known for a long time, and then finally Lindsay. It feels strange to say it all out loud.

“By the next night Ray was gone, I figured that shitfest had just been the final straw to everything. He left a note for Geoff, and one for me.”

“What did it say?” Gavin shrugs Michael’s arm off his shoulder to look him in the eyes. Michael almost can’t return his gaze. All the shit he’s saying are the roots of his doubts, his nightmares on bad nights. But Gavin doesn’t look disgusted, or like he’s pitying him. Only listening, just like how Michael did for him a few minutes before.

“I don’t know what Geoff’s said, no one ever told me. But mine just _fucking_ said, ‘Keep them safe.’ That’s it. And we never spoke again.”

“Damn,” Gavin says, and pulls him into a tight hug. They stay like that for a while, probably a bit of a pathetic picture, but it’s _real_ fucking cathartic. He realizes that for the first time there’s no secrets between them, no lingering doubt in the back of his mind. The air between them feels clean, their conversation taking a weight off his shoulders that he hadn’t even noticed he’d been carrying.

 

-

 

When they finally pull apart, the fog of past regrets clearing, Michael checks the time and immediately curses. He’d figured they wouldn’t be on the beach for that long, and now it’s _way_ fucking later than he’d thought.

“What?” Gavin’s eyes are clear again, bright and curious.

“I had dinner reservations for, uh, half an hour ago.” After all the shit they just laid out in the open, it seems like such a fucking stupid problem. This would be one of hour-ago Michael’s biggest worries, but now he can only halfway manage to care.

“Aw, bad luck. What was it for?” Gavin aks, dense a brick all of a sudden.

“For _us,_ idiot.” He takes great delight in how stunned he looks. “Why the fuck did you think I told you to dress nice? So the fucking seagulls could compliment your outfit?”

“Well I knew we might go to dinner!” Gavin cries, “But I didn’t think you’d make bloody _reservations!”_

“Remember when I said I was gonna tell you something? Wasn’t planning on it being about my tragic backstory or whatever. I was gonna ask you if you wanted this to be, uh something a little bit more official?”

“Michael Jones,” Gavin says, mouth splitting into a wide grin, “Was this meant to be a _date?”_ Gavin’s not running away screaming, or laughing at him, so Michael figures that’s a good sign.

“Well it’s a rain-check now,” he mutters, heart hammering, “Really didn’t think to plan for a massive heart-to heart.”

“Night’s still young.” Gavin leans forward and cups Michael’s cheek. Michael is very sure that he’s about to kiss him. “Buy me McDonald’s and you are forgiven.” And the moment’s broken, Gavin giving him a peck on the cheek before giggling up a storm.

“I actually fucking hate you,” is all he manages to say, face red and all his breath coming out in a rush.

“I think you might be lying,” Gavin murmurs, and kisses him for real.

 

—

 

Things settle into a new kind of normal. Michael makes up for their rain-check date and they go all over the city to each other’s favorite places—a bar Gavin likes, or a little park nestled in an odd corner of the city. They even go to Gavin’s old apartment one night, wipe the dust off of everything and gather up some of his things to take back to the penthouse.

Sometimes they go out and commit stupid, petty crimes like slashing tires on obnoxious cars or breaking into apartments and just moving all their furniture around. And through all of it they talk about everything and nothing, from weird news stories they’ve read to times they’ve almost died.

Sometimes in the dead of night, lying next together and half-asleep they talk about all the secrets they shared on that beach. Gavin tells stories about his life in England, before and after going to Texas. And in turn Michael tells him about growing up in a fucked up city, only trusting Ray to watch his back.

It feels like yesterday he met Gavin and forever ago all at once. Life’s weird like that, and kind of painful sometimes. But all he feels with Gavin by his side is _lucky._

They’ve built something good here, he thinks. And he’ll defend it till the day he dies.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank video games for ruining my productivity, the writer's group that made me get my shit together, my roommate for naming the cat and answering all my weird questions about how life works, and all of you for reading this! I had a lot of fun working on this story and I'm very excited to get started on some new projects!  
> And as always, comments are greatly appreciated <3


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